The roar of the private jet's engines faded as the sleek aircraft touched down on the tarmac, a stark contrast to the turbulent storm raging within Ophelia. She disembarked, her movements stiff and mechanical, her face a mask of icy composure. The humiliation of the evening, the shock of Maeve's revelation, the gnawing uncertainty of the future – it all weighed heavily upon her, a suffocating blanket of dread.
She arrived home to find Edward, as usual, ensconced in his study, a glass of brandy in hand, a smug expression on his face. He looked up as she entered, his eyes widening slightly at her exhausted appearance.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice laced with amusement. "The prodigal wife arrives, back so soon? I thought you were going to be basking in the glow of your… honor."
